


Worst Nightmare

by lyricalsoul



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Bad Dreams, First Time, M/M, Poor Sherlock, dream-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:59:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written ages ago for a "Make Holmes Cry" challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worst Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of angsty, and it's the ultimate hurt, but I do believe in happy endings... most days. Enjoy!

The sitting room door banged open. Holmes flinched, and squeezed the trigger prematurely, turning his hand at the same time.

The shot resounded in the room like a small explosive, and Holmes sighed in agitation, watching as the bullet ricocheted off the corner of the desk, and went through the wood of the door. "Watson, you come at a crisis!"

Watson stood frozen at the door, looking down at the red stain spreading across the front of his shirt. "Sorry," he whispered.

Holmes jerked his attention to him, frowning as the Times fluttered from Watson's hand to the floor. "Watson?" He saw the blood, and leapt from his chair to the door, catching Watson just before he hit the floor. "Watson!" He laid him down gently, his eyes wild and unfocused as he tried to understand what had happened.

"Holmes..." Watson gasped for breath. "I..."

Frantic hands tore at Watson's waist coat and shirt, and Holmes bit back a scream of anguish as he realized what he'd done. "Oh... Watson, no..." He ripped off his dressing gown, wadded it into a ball and pressed it to the hole in Watson's chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. "No... oh, my dear fellow... MRS. HUDSON!"

"Stop yelling, Holmes," Watson whispered. "I'm all in..."

"NO!" He pressed the cloth more firmly against Watson's chest, as though he could heal the wound with the touch of his hand. "You musn't die, Watson! There are so many things I need to tell you," he said fervently. "Please, Watson..."

"I..." Watson smiled at him. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you forget that."

Mrs. Hudson bustled in the room, and gasped at the sight of the good doctor lying on his back, blood flowing over Holmes' hands, onto the sitting room floor. "What have you done, Mr. Holmes? What happened?" She buried her face in her hands and began to sob loudly. "Oh, dear me!"

"If you would save your grief for another time, dear lady," Holmes said sharply, "and pull yourself together! Please get some clean cloths and water..."

She drew in a deep breath, moved her hands away and looked down at Watson again. It was clear to her that he was as near to death's door as she'd ever seen a person be, but Mr. Holmes seemed to think that he could order death itself to stop. "I'll send the lad for a doctor." She hurried from the room without a backward glance.

Holmes looked down into the familiar face, so pale now, and nearly lifeless. "Don't leave me, John. I beg you."

Watson smiled again, and lifted a trembling hand to Holmes' face. "I can't ..." He gasped and arched against the pain. "I wish you'd told me sooner, old fellow."

"No.." Holmes watched Watson's hand fall limply to the floor, and he knew he was beyond this world. "My dear friend... what have I done?" He laid his head on the strong, sturdy chest as he had longed to do for so many days and nights. "John, I'm so sorry." Tears welled in his eyes, and he held him tightly, weeping silently for the loss of his friend, and for the breaking of his heart.

It took Inspector Lestrade and three of his strongest constables to pry Holmes away so that the doctor could remove Watson from the sitting room.

 

****

 

Watson watched with fascination as Holmes twisted and turned in his sleep, kicking out at some unknown assailant, nearly falling from the settee.

"John!" Holmes reached out with both arms, and clenched his fists tightly. "Oh, please, dear fellow, don't leave me..."

Watson moved closer, and knelt down near Holmes' head. "Holmes," he whispered.

"No," Holmes sobbed. "NO!"

"Shh... it's all right," Watson crooned. "Wake up, Holmes."

Dark lashes fluttered and Holmes bolted up, fully awake. "John!" He flung his arms around Watson's waist, and held him firmly, pressing his lips against the pulse in Watson's neck.

Watson blushed and petted his back in reassurance, using firm strokes to calm him. "It's all right, Holmes," he whispered over and over. "It's all right."

After a few moments, Holmes released him, and lay back against the cushions, an arm flung across his eyes. "I... er, that is... no doubt I have shocked you, Watson."

"And yourself, from the flush spreading about your face and neck," Watson replied, watching Holmes intently. "What was it about?"

"Merely a nightmare that I have from time to time," Holmes said tersely, moving his arm from his eyes to reveal traces of moisture. "I apologize for disturbing your reading."

"This is different than your dreams of Moriarty. You were calling for me, and when you woke, you clutched at me like a... lover. And you are crying. Why?"

"I..." Holmes shook his head firmly. "It is a trifle. And rather silly. The tears are... of no consequence. Merely an involuntary response to stimuli that I could not stem."

"Don't." Watson's tone sharpened, and he grabbed Holmes' hand in his. "I have had similar dreams. I know such things make you uncomfortable, but... do not think for one second that you are alone in your... feelings. Or your tears." He dropped the trembling hand, and moved to stand. "I'm going out for a bit of a walk."

Holmes watched him as he walked to the door. Watched him put on his coat and hat, and watched as he took up his walking stick. Watched him open the door, and watched him look back with the most curious look on his face. "Watson."

"Hmm?"

"Were you... ah, did you mean to say...?" He cleared his throat. "I, ah, my... I should not have anything happen to you. I would be rather lost."

Watson sighed. "I know that already."

Holmes rolled off the settee, and stood, his hands on his hips, lips pursed in thought. "Well, then perhaps you do not know how deeply my fondness for you runs." He blinked rapidly then, as the remnants of the dream played at the edges of his memory, causing a tide of emotion to swell in his chest. He knew he couldn't let it pass unsaid. "I... love you, Watson."

Watson dropped his walking stick and held his arms open. "Come here."

Holmes leapt over the settee and moved into Watson's warm embrace. He buried his head in the strong chest, and let the tears of happiness flow freely, safe in the knowledge that as Watson's own tears fell in his hair, his love was returned one hundred-fold.

Fin


End file.
